Practically Perfect
by slash mania
Summary: Arthur, the best point man in dreamshare has a dark secret...his full name is actually Arthur Poppins, and he's willing to do anything to escape becoming a magical nanny like his grandmother!
1. Chapter 1

A.N- This is a blanket author's note. There is also a blanket disclaimer, too. I just finished posting on AO3. I don't own either Inception or Mary Poppins. I had a lot of fun writing, so please enjoy!

* * *

People wouldn't know it from looking at him, but Arthur came from a very special bloodline. Arthur, while not looking particularly average or even outstanding (though a certain forger might have something to say about that), came from a line of specifically skilled individuals.

They were indispensable, prompt, rule-abiding, sometimes taskmasters, but always remembered for their charm, though they often were mistaken as either stuffy or sticks in the mud.

Unless they had seen it for themselves, not a soul would believe that Arthur's last name was Poppins. That the traits that made a Poppins an exemplary nanny actually skipped a generation, and that Arthur, who had always known the family secret, had thought that his oldest sister (who was kind, but firm, and could marshal and command an entire troop of children with a smile and promise of sweets for jobs well done) would have received the Poppins trait.

But Arthur had been wrong, and his parents had noticed the earliest signs well before Arthur could formulate an opinion against becoming a magical nanny; like how when he was a toddler Arthur would play patty cake with his image in the mirror, the reflection behaving like another, identical Arthur. Or how Arthur had an untrained but excellent singing voice that allowed objects to move at his melodic command. But when he was older, Arthur, then a sulky and pubescent teen, had argued with his grandmother about following the family calling.

"I don't-"

"Pish posh," his grandmother said, reaching out and smoothing his hair back. "It's not a matter of want. It's your calling. You have skills that are perfect for looking after others, Arthur."

"And changing diapers and wiping noses and reading stories to ungrateful little children," Arthur groaned. "Grandmother, I don't want to do it! Why can't I become what I want to be? Maybe something that isn't so girly?"

His grandmother raised an eyebrow at him, imperious, commanding. "Being a nanny isn't girly, Arthur Poppins."

"I sang to my vacuum and it took care of the carpet for me," Arthur said slowly. " _I sang to it_. There weren't even words, I just started humming and then it happened!"

"You're a natural," his grandmother proclaimed. Tugging her grandson in for a hug, she muffled his complaints, because Arthur always had many, many complaints when they spoke of the Poppins gifts.

Face smushed against his grandmother's chest, Arthur mumbled, "My window was open and a bird flew in and sang along with me."

"But that's lovely!"

"It crapped on the floor, too. Am I supposed to say that's lovely?"

Grandmother Poppins gave him a stern look, squeezing his shoulders and reassuring him that everything would be fine. "You'll grow into it, Arthur."

* * *

And Arthur grew up, eventually moving away from home, joining the military in an attempt to escape the dominantly feminine aspects of the family gift. Arthur wanted to be a soldier, proving his mettle and strength, fighting for his country, and purposely not singing or cleaning or looking after children.

But after he became involved in Project Somnacin, he felt he'd finally found his niche- that it was far enough away from the future and skills his grandmother had promised him he'd grow into and closer to what he imagined for himself which had been a blurry _anything but what grandmother said_.

That sort of definition gave Arthur plenty of leeway- he'd tried being a soldier; but after being in that experimental program, he'd taken to dreamshare and seen all the blurry ideas about his future suddenly become clear- he could go anywhere, do _anything_ , as long as he had the PASIV.

So he stole it.

He wished he wasn't surprised when his grandmother managed to call him on the special burner phone he'd gotten so he'd be able to drop off the grid and hide from the military.

It said something about the willpower of his grandmother that she'd been able to do what the US Military couldn't.

 _"Arthur, I'm very disappointed in you!"_

Though Arthur was a grown man now, skilled in several forms of combat and known for his ability not to flinch in the face of the most horrifying dreams, the sound of his grandmother's voice made him remember what it felt like to be small and young and only wanting her approval.

"Grandmother, I can't do what you want me to do. I can't- no, I _won't_ be a nanny! Special Poppins traits, be damned!"

He could practically feel her disapproval from over the phone; it was tangible and manifested itself as a prickling sensation across the back of his neck.

Then he heard her sigh. His grandmother didn't often give up, or lose hope. She often managed to find some way to get things done properly. After all, when measured she was Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. Arthur wasn't so sure what he'd be measured as; there may be swears included next to the name of Arthur Poppins because he'd disappointed her.

 _"You've always been the most independent of my grandchildren. But I don't think this chapter of your life is closed. Please be safe, darling."_

* * *

Arthur worked in dreamshare and made a name for himself. He was the best.

Arthur was the best point man. He got to spend several years of his life working his dream job; it had nothing to do with caring for children.

But it appeared that even as he worked his dream job, he was drawn into the world he'd fled, the destiny he had tried to ignore.

Even when he met the Cobbs and worked with them for awhile, it took him awhile to develop relationships with their children. Aware of the skills he possessed, Arthur became famous for raising up his empty hands and quickly saying, "No, no please, wouldn't you rather someone else hold the baby?"

The answer was usually no. Despite his best efforts of masking it, Arthur was excellent with children. And from the Cobbs pleasant home in California, Arthur was certain he could feel the quiet triumph of his dear grandmother on the other side of the planet. Arthur rocked, fed, played with, and changed babies, silently telling himself that this meant nothing. That he wasn't a nanny!

And then Mal committed suicide and the axis of Arthur's world shifted place, forcing him to take on an entirely different job that didn't relate to the Cobbs growing, now motherless, babies, but focused on Arthur's diligent care of Dominic Cobb as he circled the globe and struggled to come up with a way back home in light of the damning evidence Mal had left behind.

* * *

Cobb was just unobservant enough that he didn't notice when Arthur's family gifts began to encroach on Arthur's neatly ordered, dream criminal lifestyle.

When Cobb was broken by grief, Arthur would have to force Cobb to do even the most basic things. He'd have to force Cobb to change his clothes, chide him for living like a slob, and really put his foot down when the man's drinking became unhealthy. But the worst had to be Cobb's sleeplessness.

The man would stare up at the ceiling in a disturbing fashion. And when they had to share beds because of poor accommodations explained away in several languages that boiled down to "from the nurturing and kind way you dragged the blonde man in here, we thought that you were a couple. You're not? Because if you're not a couple you must be very codependent. Or he treats you like his personal nanny!" It wasn't an exact quote or translation, but that was the gist of it.

Arthur always cringed at the last part, because he thought he'd moved on from that. He was able to wave off the comment about them being a couple because there were only so many assumptions that could be made when Arthur had to do so much for Cobb to ensure his survival.

So when Cobb would stare at the ceiling, Arthur wouldn't be able to help himself. He'd sing to himself very softly. His grandmother's favorite songs for sleep, the ones he remembered her singing to him when he was a child. As Arthur continued, just as soft, just as mellow, Cobb's eyes began to flutter and unintentionally shut. Cobb would drop to sleep within minutes and then roll over and cuddle Arthur.

Arthur would silently hate himself and then either very firmly tell Cobb the next morning that he was sleeping on the floor for his back, or resolve to come up with a better argument for the hotel owners that believed he and Cobb were a couple; maybe something that translated better than a simple no. Maybe hell no, you would have to kill me first, this man cuddles.

* * *

When he met Eames, things became difficult. His grandmother, bless her, didn't often tell her grandson about her husband, Bert. Arthur never met him, his mother never met him; at a certain point of his life, Arthur had been certain that Bert was just a made up, dreamed up man that his grandmother said was her husband, and that was all. Because when Arthur was a very little boy, he'd not believed his grandmother when she would talk about all the fun things she and Bert had done. _His_ grandmother couldn't possibly do fun things like jumping into chalk drawings or dance and sing on rooftops! Grandmother Mary was firm and liked rules, and when Arthur grew up a little he could understand how he'd not understood that the fun and the rules sometimes mixed.

That it wasn't at all fair to say his grandmother wasn't fun just because she had a hard job that forced her to come up with entertaining ways of getting those in her care to listen to her. And once again, once he was older, Arthur began to see the parallel. While he'd been sort of frightened of James and Phillipa when they were babies, he learned to love them because of their personalities and the way they'd look at him adoringly, even if he forced them to eat their vegetables or clean their rooms. Arthur's caring for Cobb wasn't all that different- Cobb also wasn't so awful, even if Arthur had to tell Cobb to shut the fuck up at 3 a.m. because they had to sleep and then get out of the country in the morning.

He was getting away from himself. What he meant was that his grandfather, whom he never knew but he could now believe in a little bit more because he was older and wiser and couldn't find a better explanation for why Grandmother Mary had his mother. Not wanting to open up that kind of a can of worms, Arthur was willing to believe his grandmother's stories of Bert.

When Arthur was very young and not so dead set on never ever becoming a nanny, Arthur could imagine that Bert had been an amazing guy. He'd been funny, creative, and charming. Responsible when it counts, but also very insightful, too!

And when Arthur met Eames, he'd had a horrible sinking feeling that not only was he fulfilling his grandmother's beliefs of what he was supposed to be in life, but that they also had a similar type.

Because Eames was artistic and charming, funny, too! He was just the right mix of responsible and renegade, a fellow deserter from another PASIV oriented project, who left because he didn't agree with what use the technology was being put to. Never mind that Eames was using the same technology to steal information from others!

"Hello, darling," Eames had said, shaking hands with Arthur, but giving him such a look. A look like that could last for days. If Arthur were honest, he replayed that look in his mind over the course of that job, ignoring Cobb until the man finally became aware enough of what they were doing and what was at stake to ask Arthur why the hell was he taking so long in the shower?

The only difference between Eames and Arthur's grandfather was their professions. Eames, dream thief and forger, may have been an artist at one point. Or he could have dabbled in it for money. Or maybe he honestly loved it and kept it separate from his work for a reason.

Arthur's grandfather had been the type of artist to choose a nice spot on the streets and begin creating a beautiful world that would only seem two-dimensional on the pavement, but was really a wonderful place that was accessible if you think, wink, double blink, and then jump! Whenever grandmother would tell those stories, Arthur would wish he could do the same, to really jump into the scenes he loved best. Bert was also a musician. And, of course, the last was the one thing that grandmother Mary always mentioned with a sad smile.

"Arthur, your grandfather was a fine chimney sweep."

He only learned what happened to Bert when he was old enough to understand that unlike all the other magical parts of her stories, _chimney sweep accident_ only meant that Bert had jumped in and not made it to the other side of anything.

That the only thing he'd done was hit the bottom and not come back.

But why bring it up at all? Arthur had never met the man, and knew that his grandmother missed him.

If Arthur were being honest with himself, he'd say that he was hopelessly attracted to Eames (that he liked working with him, talking with him, and had spent much personal time thinking about him) but didn't see how he could make a relationship work, especially with his history and his family. Cobb's dependence upon him deserved its own category, so for many years as he followed after the extractor Arthur had enough reasons to not indulge in the idea of _anything_ with Eames. Because deep in his heart, for as many times as he clenched his fist and swore the oath to never, ever become a nanny, he also had another oath about not setting himself up for disappointment.

And then the Fischer job happened. They completed an inception, and Cobb got to go home to his children, leaving Arthur free to take on whatever jobs he wanted, without seeing to the care and well-being of Cobb.

What happened next was inevitable.


	2. Chapter 2

It was like being involved in some sort of accident or natural disaster. It was amazing how fast things progressed once Eames appeared at Arthur's side at baggage claim, pointedly looking the way that Cobb had gone as if he was checking that the coast was clear. Arthur was busy pretending he didn't notice that.

"Now that you've ditched Cobb, what do you say to us teaming up, Arthur?"

"I didn't ditch him; we're all separating like any team should after the completion of a high-stakes dreamshare job."

But it was possible that it was obvious how done Arthur was with Cobb's behavior during the inception. Sure, Cobb had pulled off what Arthur had believed to be impossible, but that didn't restore any good feelings Arthur had for the man; after all, when all was said and done, that man cuddled. He had done ridiculous, unethical things in order to get back to his children during that job, but none of it trumped the fact that the man _cuddled._

Arthur trusted James and Phillipa with Cobb. In the past they'd proven to him that they could keep their pet gold fish alive. They were smart kids, and now that Cobb was back and mostly sane, they'd likely be enough to keep their father in line and could still proudly show Arthur their clean bedrooms, drawings, intricate Lego designs, and report cards over Skype.

Arthur was free from playing point-nanny to Cobb.

It made Eames's offer very tempting. Arthur clenched his fist and tried to remind himself why it was a bad idea, that it would only lead to disappointment.

"Come on," Eames said as Arthur thought, considered, and reconsidered. "We work well together. We've always worked well together!"

Arthur turned to Eames then and gave him his terms. "Fine, we'll work together as a team. But let me make this clear, okay?"

Eames nodded, perhaps prepared for some form of negotiation. "I'm listening."

"If we're a team, you and I? I'm your point man not your caregiver."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "We're both grown men. We're criminals at the top of our fields after just pulling off the biggest job of both our careers combined. If I wanted you to treat my wounds, cook my meals, and look after me, I'd say so."

"I'm not doing that," Arthur pressed, shaking his head and picking up his bag, gesturing that Eames should follow him. "If we're going to be talking about work, let's do it somewhere where people can't overhear."

The forger followed after Arthur, already offering suggestions. "We could go to a bar? Get a meal?"

Arthur snorted. "I've got a hotel room that would be much more private. Is room service and a minibar good enough, Mr. Eames?"

"Yes, it will be the perfect way to celebrate!"

* * *

They didn't order anything fancy from room service; Eames had a burger and Arthur had decided on a salad, then regretted the choice when he started to put away lots of itsy-bitsy bottles of Jack Daniels. Eames had matched him with itsy-bitsy bottles of Absolut.

"I-," Arthur began to say, then forced himself to speak even though it was going to come out sort of slurred, thinking: _Once you've begun to get drunk with your new partner, there's some things you have to let go._ "'m getting too drunk, Eams- Eamers- _Eames!_ There," Arthur said triumphantly, and grinned at the forger. "Got it right on the third try!"

"You are so darling," Eames said, not nearly as crocked as Arthur, sitting with his arms folded against his chest, his line of empty vodka bottles standing like soldiers next to his plate. The hotel room table was nearly big enough for their plates, but if they continued drinking all the little bottles would land on the floor.

"The minibar might have mini snacks," Arthur was muttering, getting out of his chair and stumbling to it. He opened it and exclaimed, "Look, Eames! They have Pringles!"

Eames tried to hold back his laughter, but just couldn't when Arthur came back to the table holding a bright red canister of chips.

"You hate Pringles, Arthur." But Eames watched as Arthur carefully peeled off the plastic lid, then the inner seal, finally plucking out a chip and taking a bite.

"I don't hate Pringles," Arthur said after chewing and swallowing. "I just like the original flavor. I feel the same way about Lays, I'm satisfied with the original, and maybe the honey barbecue ones."

"See? We're learning new things about each other now that Cobb is home."

Arthur picked up another chip and pointed at Eames with it. "There are things I don't want you to learn about me."

Eames paid close attention. "Embarrassing things or things that will send men to kill me in the night?" Then Eames began to guess at what those things might be. "Your first suit was plaid. You are of royal blood. Somewhere there is a picture of you in an adorable bunny costume. Your dimples are the work of a skilled plastic surgeon."

Arthur shook his head and said, "'m supposed to be a magic nanny. My grandmother said so."

Then Arthur laughed, not noticing the shocked look on Eames's face. "And fuck you, my dimples are real!"


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke up feeling hungover, but at least he woke up in bed, covered up by a blanket, with someone laying next to him-

Arthur's eyes snapped open when he realized he wasn't alone. That there was Eames, curled up under the same blanket, but still a respectful distance away from Arthur on the generously sized bed. To Arthur's knowledge, there had been no sexual activity, but he'd gotten pretty drunk, so maybe he'd better be mature and gently wake Eames up to ask. Yes, that was an excellent place to start.

But Arthur carefully got out of the bed, not daring to jostle the forger awake as he did what he could to avoid doing any of it. He didn't want to be mature. He didn't want to listen to what Eames remembered him saying the night before when he was still flying from their surviving an impossible job and then drinking too much whiskey.

The room was slightly chilly and Arthur looked back at the warm bed, and his sleeping bed mate, with a trace of longing that had less to do with his feet getting cold and more to do with the fact that there was a damned reason he'd not wanted to get involved like this! He shook his head and took stock of the situation; still wearing his clothing, definitely a plus, his suit jacket draped over his luggage near the closet, shoes tossed close to it. His clothing had been loosened. Either he, or maybe Eames, had thought to remove his tie and waistcoat, to unbutton his shirt collar so he wouldn't wake up uncomfortable. Arthur examined his bare feet and wondered where the socks had gone.

There was something sort of intimate about the thought of Eames helping him get comfortable enough to sleep off being crocked. He started to feel reassured that nothing happened aside from the most damning thing he could recall; that he'd told Eames about the magic nanny thing. Sure, his memory got a little vague after that. He remembered laughing a lot, so maybe it wasn't so horrible? Maybe Eames would honestly think that Arthur was ridiculous after he'd put a few away?

Still mulling those thoughts over, Arthur retreated to the bathroom with a change of clothes and the zippered bag full of his preferred toiletries. He'd shower and think about what to do.

* * *

After a short shower and shave, Arthur still hadn't thought of anything that would help. He'd brushed his teeth, annoyed that he'd forgotten to grab something for his headache before bothering to wash up. He would get it once he'd left the restroom, put together yet casual, only sort-of ready to deal with whatever lay ahead. He'd leave the bottle on the table with an empty water glass, because while Arthur had said he wasn't going to be Eames's caregiver, he still believed in being polite. He'd invited Eames to his hotel room, after all, and being a good host didn't have to be used with just his actual home in mind.

But when Arthur left the bathroom he noticed that Eames was still sleeping. Arthur checked the alarm clock on the nightstand and frowned. It wasn't even 8:00 a.m. yet. Naturally an early riser, Arthur had considered the effects of the ten hour flight, the three levels of their shared dream, and the strain it would place on all of them. Arthur shouldn't have been so surprised that Eames was sleeping in. It just meant that Arthur would have a chance to get his thoughts in order.

The deal with Arthur and thinking or planning, was that he did it best while occupied with something else. He could go for a walk or a jog, order breakfast and coffee, or do what had been nagging him when he passed the mess on the table to reach the shower.

Arthur wasn't a neat freak. He liked things to be organized, clean, and out of the way when not in use. The remains of his and Eames's meal and alcohol binge littered the table. He looked around the room and noticed that there were things that could be moved for the sake of making packing and leaving by check-out easier. Arthur looked at Eames again, noticing that the man was resting peacefully. He resolved that he'd get this done by himself as quietly as possible.

Which meant that he would resist the urge to hum, whistle, sing, or snap his fingers at the things that needed to be put away or put into order so the hotel staff could take care of it.

If he was alone, he'd not be able to completely resist using his gifts to make the work easier. As he'd gotten older, dealt more with Cobb or Cobb's children, he'd began to do it unintentionally. Like singing Cobb to sleep so he'd stop being creepy, or encouraging the children to clean their rooms by making it a game- Arthur would do his grandmother's tricks for easy cleaning when James and Phillipa were so young they couldn't distinguish fantasy from reality, he couldn't help but sing to himself and snap his fingers at unorganized stuffed animals, making their teddy bears or Barbies go dancing into their toy boxes while they clapped and tried snapping their fingers at things too!

Arthur had loved the looks of surprise on their faces! They'd laugh and tug on Arthur's hands, begging him to show them how to make things move like magic! And when they'd tell their parents, Arthur would pull the long suffering facial expression he practiced in the mirror for when he had to pretend that the children were exaggerating over a game Arthur had made up, because of course Arthur wasn't capable of magic! When Arthur practiced _that_ face in the mirror, his reflection, behaving as a separate entity, would narrow his eyes at Arthur and say: "Grandmother wouldn't have to lie."

Arthur may have begun to avoid interacting with his reflection for longer than necessary when he was getting himself ready for the day. Just this morning Arthur had patiently ignored the way his reflection had stopped mimicking the action of brushing his teeth to spit out a mouthful of toothpaste foam as Arthur continued diligently brushing, just so he could say: "He's gonna find out, stupid."

So when Arthur began to hum softly, not actually singing, because that would be a surefire way to wake Eames up, the room began to get itself in order because Arthur wanted it to. He hummed, and on a whim softly snapped his fingers at the army of tiny empty alcohol bottles to watch them march off the table and jump into a nearby trashcan that obligingly slid closer to the table to catch each one.

Another snap forced the plates to become a neat stack, dirtied utensils on the top. Used napkins fluttered like birds into the trashcan. Arthur wasn't sure who had done it, but the printed up list of prices for the stuff in the minibar had been folded into a paper airplane and made a crash landing on the carpet. One snap forced the paper plane to unfold itself, creases gone, so it could be returned to the minibar, but not before Arthur read it and rolled his eyes at what he'd have added to his bill. Arthur gestured to his dirty clothes, snapping twice to encourage the wrinkled suit and other articles of clothing to fold and then arrange themselves neatly in his unzipped luggage.

Arthur was so busy doing these things that he didn't notice it when Eames rolled over, yawned widely, and spent a full minute staring at Arthur tidying the room by _snapping his fingers and humming._

"Well," Eames said slowly. "I guess you were telling me the truth last night."

Arthur froze, his attention diverted from the empty can of Pringles he was in the middle of making flip end over end like a red cylindrical gymnast across the table to join the rest of the stuff in the trashcan. When Arthur looked away the Pringles can stopped mid-flip and rolled off the table to hit the carpet. The point man began, against all logic and reason, to blush heartily in embarrassment as if Eames seen him naked. To be honest, Arthur would greatly prefer it if Eames had seen him naked. That could be easier to explain, given the way he explained it.

The many and varied ways he could explain being naked in his own hotel room could involve all sorts of problems with his clothing like accidental stains or emergency tailoring. Hell, Arthur might even be able to swing a surprise seduction attempt because anyone with eyes could see the way they danced around each other like idiots. But Eames wasn't an idiot, he was just persistent and flirted a lot. No, Arthur was an idiot.

Arthur experienced a sinking feeling as he was sure that this was going to lead to the mature conversation he had been trying to avoid. His fucking reflection had been right.

"If we're still going to be partners I have a lot I need to explain to you," Arthur began, forcing himself to make eye contact with Eames, to will away the blush that had no doubt pinked his cheeks and his ears, making him look years younger and as threatening as a magic nanny was probably meant to be.

Eames sat up in bed, shifting the blankets aside to reveal that he'd also been sleeping mostly dressed in an outfit from the day before. He reached into his pocket, no doubt checking his totem to be certain he wasn't dreaming, then nodded. "Can we talk about it over breakfast? I shouldn't complain because I drank you under the table, but I've got a nice headache brewing-"

Blush fading, Arthur noticed the bottle of ibuprofen on the table and figured if he'd been found out, he'd been found out. Why hide it? Arthur snapped his fingers at the bottle and watched it fly through the air towards Eames, who managed to catch it. He rattled the bottle and raised his eyebrows at Arthur, still working on his reaction to this.

"I'll get you some water for those pills, and then we can decide what we'll have for breakfast."


	4. Chapter 4

"These are our options," Arthur said as Eames took his pills with the water Arthur had brought him, sitting on the side of the bed they'd shared and watching Arthur like he was the most fascinating person ever. Having the undivided attention of Eames always made Arthur feel special, so he savored it while he could. There was no telling what would happen after the forger had heard everything Arthur was going to say over breakfast.

"There's room service. From what I could tell of the area there's a few different places we could go if room service isn't appealing." Arthur began to list them off. "There are two diners and a coffee shop."

Eames placed the empty water glass on the nightstand, finished with it, but he was fidgety without something to occupy his hands; Eames rubbed the palms of his hands against his thighs, nervous maybe.

"Do you want privacy for this conversation, Arthur? Is the information sensitive? Will revealing anything to me put you or anyone else in danger?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "I'm not the product of a government experiment. I'm also not an alien. My family has specific skills, the Poppins gift, as we call it." Arthur felt relief when Eames didn't choose to run outside after hearing this information. The forger looked interested instead of horrified or scared.

"You said that you're supposed to be a _magic nanny._ "

Arthur nodded gravely, unintentionally frowning over what he'd chosen to reveal to Eames when he was tipsy. Things would have been so much easier if he'd only done something mildly embarrassing instead of revealing personal information about himself. "Yes. The gift tends to skip a generation; my grandmother Mary wasn't pleased when I chose to do something else with my life. To try and be anything _but_ a magic nanny. It isn't something I've been able to escape; its something I'm skilled in, obviously, but I don't want to be that."

Eames nodded. "And you keep getting roped into it, right?"

Arthur sighed and agreed. "That's why I gave you such specific conditions before agreeing to work together."

"I can catch a shower," Eames was saying, plucking at his wrinkled black shirt. "If you're comfortable talking in public I wouldn't mind hitting the diner after we check-out."

"Perfect," Arthur agreed. He didn't see the point in lingering in the hotel room just to continue telling Eames details about his life, his family. It was unlikely that there would be anyone who would understand what Arthur was saying without proper context. It all sounded perfectly innocent and normal without the proper context!

* * *

"She's practically perfect in every way?"

"Yes."

Eames frowned at Arthur, poking his over easy eggs with his fork, breaking the yolks so they dribbled onto his hashbrowns.

" _Every way_."

Arthur nodded. "That's still how my grandmother measures up, yes. And before you ask, I've not been measured with that tape before. I've got no idea where I stand with it, but to be honest, I doubt its flattering."

Eames was politely silent while Arthur drank some coffee, waiting till the point man was finished to say, "I think you're too hard on yourself about this nanny business."

"It's hard not to be, Eames. A Poppins rarely deviates from the family calling when they have the gift. I'm probably as skilled as my grandmother but I just can't see myself waiting around for people who need me to look after them. I can't spend my time sitting on a cloud and checking my phone for texts and emails, Eames! I just can't!"

"On a cloud?" Eames's eyebrows went up. "You've done that before?"

Arthur kept talking, even though he was sure that he should have left that part out. There was something about mentioning the cloud thing that made him want to talk about all the other weird stuff that came with his gift, whether he wanted them or not. It was strange, but talking about it with Eames didn't make him feel as horribly embarrassed as he once thought it would.

"Yes, I was being chased down by some idiots who thought they could settle a score and steal my PASIV. So I checked for a stiff breeze, opened my umbrella, and then took off. I hid up in a cloud bank until I was sure they'd given up or checked themselves into a hospital; I was sure at least one of them caught sight of me getting lifted away."

Eames wasn't even attempting to pretend to eat now. He watched Arthur, mouth hanging open a little bit, before recovering enough to ask another question.

"You can fly?"

"No, the wind does all the work for me! My umbrella, too. It was a gift from my grandmother, made by the same person who made her own, just without the parrot head handle, because while I may be able to wave away all sorts of odd things about me or my gifts, using an umbrella decorated with a noticeable parrot head is a little too much."

Eames nodded in agreement. "Parrots don't seem to be your style. I bet yours is basic black, retractable for convenience, spring-loaded for increased attack capabilities."

"Basic black, but with a bamboo crook handle. Not collapsible, just a manual umbrella. It was sent to me not long after I started in dreamshare and ended up working with the Cobbs."

"And their children."

Arthur nodded. "And their children." He sighed. "When I got it, I kind of got worried about what it meant, you know? My grandmother has been around, well, almost _forever_. It's the gift, really. All Poppins with the gift have these fantastically extended lives. It would make sense that she wanted me to have an umbrella symbolic of what we do, but I rarely take it out, even when it rains."

Eames frowned. "Then how did you have it the day you had to hide in the cloud bank?"

Arthur shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I was running, they were gaining on me, and all I was thinking about was how the hell I was going to escape with as few injuries as possible, the PASIV intact. Then my umbrella appeared in my other hand, gone from the umbrella stand I've got in my home where it had been sitting gathering dust. It came to me when I needed it then, and might do it again if I truly needed it."

The point man was quiet for a moment, astounded over all the things he'd revealed to Eames during their breakfast. He'd barely eaten his waffle, and was still working on his first cup of coffee. He took a sip and noticed that it really needed a warm-up.

"I know that this is a lot to take in, and if any of it bothers you we can part ways with no problems."

"Are you crazy, Arthur? There's no way I'd lose a chance to work with you!"

"Maybe if I was a regular point man-"

"You're better than a regular point man, Arthur, you're the best! Even better now that I have proof you're _practically perfect._ "

Arthur did blush this time, shaking his head. "That was my grandmother. I'm just Arthur."

Eames grinned for the point man. "I'm going to change your mind. You know that, don't you? You're the best point in dreamshare. And you're magic. We're going to have an excellent time working together!"

Arthur didn't fight Eames too hard on that one. It was a difference in opinion, but they still would work well together. It also didn't hurt that one person now knew his secret, and hadn't run away or called the papers.

It was a good start to their partnership.

His grandmother might even call it _supercalifragilisticexpialidocious._


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur had yet to say that deciding to tell Eames about his secret _and_ agreeing to become his partner in dreamshare was the best thing ever. First, it wasn't something he'd make known. Not in this line of work. He was a point man who was also a magic nanny (or a point-nanny, which Arthur hated on principle because when he took point, he took point and didn't willingly use his gifts as a Poppins when he was on the clock) and a thing like that could easily ruin his reputation as the best point man.

But not saying anything about it (not the decision, not Arthur's feelings on being a point man, nanny, or some combination of the two) didn't change the fact that it was so, so true. Arthur was free to entertain the idea of hiring a skywriter, sending a Tweet, or grabbing someone passing him by on the street to tell them about how great things were going because it wouldn't have changed the fact that working with Eames was wonderful. That telling the forger about his family oddness, his gift, was one of the best decisions he could have made.

Despite how well they worked together, how smoothly the jobs went now that Arthur didn't have to deal with Cobb's shade of Mal ruining everything, it didn't change the fact that sometimes a successful extraction or carefully chosen inception would end in gunfire and a not-so-merry chase.

As they took a short-cut, running through a condemned parking structure, gun shots pitted the cement pillars and walls, all that remained standing of the structure. Clutching the PASIV in one hand, his Glock 17 in the other, Arthur cursed to himself over the turn this job was taking. He tried to come up with a few positives to balance out the negatives.

At least the area was empty of witnesses and traffic. They might even have a chance to run for their car

Hiding behind another cement pillar, Arthur leaned against it and watched as Eames returned fire, then ducked behind the pillar again. The forger was still flushed from all the running, and Arthur took a moment to enjoy the fact that this guy- _this guy-_ was the one he had agreed to run with when things didn't go well. Because the look Eames sent him was still businesslike, but tinged with concern, with worry.

"Any chance of being able to whisk us away with that umbrella, darling?"

Arthur shifted, noticed something being crushed beneath his shoes and grimaced once he realized he'd been standing in chalk- his shoes, once polished and pristine, now had a sheen of cheerful yellow chalk dust.

"No breeze," Arthur said as he noticed more chalk on the ground, that some of the walls and pillars of this parking structure had been covered in chalk graffiti. "But I have another idea that should work..."

Arthur put the PASIV on the ground, leaning it against the pillar. He snatched up a couple of sticks of chalk and pressed them into Eames's hand.

"Draw a scene or landscape on the the ground. Draw anything you like, but do it quickly!"

Eames frowned at Arthur, but immediately knelt on the ground, keeping his gun within reach as he began to draw something using the lime green chalk.

Arthur could hear the sounds of someone running towards their hiding place, it wouldn't take them long to enter into a more direct sort of conflict. The point man already knew what the weather was like; close to sunset, but clear skies with no chance of rain. If they timed it properly they'd make it!

Eames finished and glanced up at Arthur. The point man gestured for him to stand, then grabbed the PASIV, and looked over his shoulder before taking a deep breath, saying it quickly as if that would make it sound less silly.

"I want you to think, wink, double blink, and then jump into the drawing."

Instead of asking Arthur how that could be possible, Eames holstered his gun and nodded.

Then Eames did all of them while Arthur kept watch. The fact that he did all of them without questioning Arthur, that he did all of them even though they sounded ridiculous, made Arthur experience a strange fluttering feeling in his chest. The fact that Eames had that much faith in him, the fact that Eames jumped into his own chalk drawing of some kind of landscape with rolling green hills and a purple lane to walk down. There might have been trees to shade the purple lane, but with only three colors to work with there was a lot of blurring and blending going on.

Another bullet whizzed by and lodged itself into the pillar Arthur was standing behind. It was time to go!

Looking at the chalk drawing, Arthur said, "Whenever I doubt there's a way I could love you more, you surprise me, Mr. Eames."

Then Arthur did it just as his grandmother described in her stories. After thinking, winking, and double blinking, Arthur jumped into Eames's chalk drawing, still holding his PASIV and his gun!


	6. Chapter 6

Jumping through the chalk drawing, taking that _hop_ , wasn't like falling through anything else he'd experienced in real life or dreams. And considering his work and all the dangerous situations he found himself in, he'd done a lot of jumping.

The benefit of this sort of jump was there wasn't a risk of physical damage. Passing through the one dimensional drawing, the flat landscape with few of the tricks Arthur was certain Eames would have employed to give the chalk drawing a sense of depth though it was truly only one dimensional, but hadn't because there wasn't time; Arthur felt nothing as he made the jump- not the chalk, not the concrete, not anything.

Like a trapdoor or a Penrose stairway, this was a way of cheating the architecture of a fantasy setting or dreamed up place while still topside. Technically.

He found Eames sitting on the purple path surrounded by masses of green that could be grassy hills and blurred trees. If Eames wasn't having a panic attack, this might be okay.

But when Arthur reached him, Eames was having a calm, completely rational conversation with a talking animal.

"No," Eames was saying, answering a talking rabbit's question. "I haven't been here before. Unless I'm dreaming it?"

"How did you get here, Eames?" Arthur asked, trying not to notice how the rabbit perked up at the sight of him, even if Arthur was still carrying a gun and the PASIV. Arthur cringed and made sure to holster the weapon.

"I followed the advice of a smartly dressed magic point man and hopped into a chalk drawing to escape from our mark's men." Eames smiled up at the point man and then nodded to the small rabbit. "This fellow seemed to think I'd come to see a man named Bert."

Arthur paled. "What?"

Eames noticed right away. He got to his feet and moved closer to the other man. "What did I say? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Pretty much," Arthur admitted speaking to the rabbit that was only a couple of feet away, not doing more than twitching its nose in interest and waiting for their answer. "Could you please take me to see him? I'm his grandson."

Looking back at Eames, Arthur noticed that the man was a little shocked, but doing his best to not show it. He'd done so well with all the weird things that Arthur would say or do, but this was probably going to strain the limits of his good natured acceptance of Arthur's oddness.

"Okay, I'll be straight with you," Arthur said too quickly, as if he could fill the awkward silence fast enough to prevent any lasting damage. "This stuff? All of it?" Arthur waved one hand, gesturing to the scenery, the environment, and the patiently waiting talking rabbit. "I have no idea what this is about. But I'm gonna have to find out...this place isn't something that just anyone can access whenever they want. Not like we did. But this reminds me way too much of what happens with projections-"

"Feels a bit like a dream level," Eames agreed with Arthur. "No one's extracting from us or trying to incept us. I may not have built the level, but I made the door...this is an existing level of _something_ or _someplace,_ and the door let us in. Things exist here. I don't know about you, Arthur, but in all the dreams I've walked through I haven't run into any animal projections that can talk."

Arthur wondered if he should mention the singing. That if this was what he thought it was, there might be talking _and_ singing animals, just like his grandmother's stories. Then he did just that. "Don't be surprised if there are more animals that can talk. Or sing. My grandmother would always mention that sort of thing."

At those words the little rabbit perked right up! "Mary!" The rabbit almost sang, "Yes, she's here today, too!"

Arthur couldn't help it. He froze.

"Here? Like, right now?"

The rabbit nodded quickly, looking so very happy! "Yes, she's with Bert today, sir. I'm sure she won't be bothered that you've come to visit here."

Arthur had a moment where he wanted to check his totem to be sure, but he had a feeling that what it told him would be slightly skewed. This place was slowly beginning to flesh itself out as more than what Eames had sketched out; the trees and bushes were leafy, the beaten path they stood on was shifting from the bright purple of the chalk to a deepening aubergine dirt path. If he listened carefully, he'd catch the snatches of conversation from animals in the trees. Squirrels or birds, most likely.

"Sure," Arthur answer the rabbit. "By the way, what's this place called?"

Eames looked from Arthur to the rabbit, probably curious to see what this would lead to. Arthur had a sinking feeling that this wasn't going to be very surprising, considering what he already knew from the stories.

"Of course," the rabbit said. "This is Jolly Holiday!"

Arthur's shoulders slumped, and almost as if he couldn't prevent it, he half-sung to himself, " _Ain't it a glorious day._ "

Then he cursed and shot Eames an apologetic look because he'd almost completely launched into the song his grandmother sometimes saved for singing during one of her Bert-related stories.

Eames's raised his eyebrows. "We're going to meet your grandparents here."

"Considering how strange my life is, it wouldn't completely surprise me if I find my grandmother here. My grandfather is another story."

"Why is that?"

Arthur didn't want to launch into a discussion about Bert's death. He only knew what his grandmother told him about it. And to be honest, he was curious (and mortified) by the entire situation. After finding reason after reason to hide from his family, by running away and attempting to become anything _but_ a magic nanny, his grandmother had finally managed to work her way into his dreamshare criminal lifestyle. Whether she truly meant to do that or if this was just a fluke, Arthur wasn't sure. He'd have to ask.

"Because my grandfather is supposed to be dead, Eames."


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur and Eames followed after the rabbit.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur was holding the PASIV in a white-knuckle grip, purposely not touching his totem, going over the many things his grandmother would say to him now that they've met in this way. Well, unless she was a projection in this peculiar, nearly dreamed up setting.

"Don't worry about the path," Arthur said, thinking that Eames was referring to the way the aubergine chalked road was blurring as they walked. Really hard to avoid it when one walked inside a chalk drawing.

"It would be even worse if we happened to trip on nothing and _fall_ on the road. If that happened we'd also technically be wearing the road since the chalk that depicts the road in reality could be wiped away by a thorough sweeping, or god forbid, the rain." Arthur considered it, frowning as he walked and listed off the reasons. "It's definitely a possibility since the condemned parking structure we left from didn't have a roof. If it rained the drawing could be washed away..."

"Arthur?"

"Sorry," Arthur said, apologizing for the obvious tactic of ignoring what he was about to run into. "I'm sorry, Eames. I'm just- I don't even think that 'worried' will cover what I'm feeling right now. I need a bigger word. Something that means the complete opposite of the biggest word I've ever heard."

"What word is that?"

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," Arthur said smoothly without stumbling over it. He'd had plenty of practice learning to say it when he was a child as his mother and grandmother often spoke of it or used it in conversation. He gave his teachers migraines when he would include it in any of his spelling assignments. They would insist it wasn't a word and drop points off of sentences that otherwise had perfect spelling and grammar. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious became the theme for many of his parent-teacher conferences.

Secretly, Arthur wanted to know what Eames thought about the word. It was such an Eamesian word, even if it was something bandied about in Arthur's family. Arthur knew that it wasn't a word that was associated with him as a stuffy, rule-abiding, kill joy of a point man. No, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious wasn't a point man word. So Arthur used words like specificity and tried to think of the opposite of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to describe this moment now.

"You could just add a prefix and describe this experience as un-supercalifragilisticexpialidocious but that kind of takes the magic away from the word."

"I tried doing that after all of my elementary school spelling assignments began to be graded very harshly. Then I started including very long words that weren't my grandmother's favorite word. It was kind of like a linguistic curve ball."

"A verbal sucker punch?"

"I'll accept that. Yes, I started using bigger words that could sound just as ridiculous to anyone else, but were still valid. I was protesting their opinions." Arthur smiled to himself, remembering it. "I once used the word 'pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis' in a sentence."

"What did that look like on paper?"

His third grade teacher had covered the sentence in red question marks. Arthur remembered it fondly now, but when he was a child it had frustrated him endlessly. He'd worked hard on that assignment!

"Billy complained to the school nurse about his recently diagnosed pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, and was sent home early."

Arthur smiled as Eames laughed. "I had to find some way to use both 'complained' and the longest word in the dictionary. Ms. Jones didn't even try to argue with my mother!"

"Do you feel a little better now?"

Oddly enough, Arthur did feel better. The conversation had vented some of his nervous energy, redirected his thoughts from what was coming. He nodded and kept close to Eames, both still following the rabbit.

"That was nice of you, but I completely swept away your apology with my case of nerves. Why were you apologizing?"

The forger shrugged. "I'm sorry that the job went south. I'm sorry it forced you to send us here, where you've basically been forced into a confrontation with your grandmother. Your grandfather being here probably doesn't make this any easier. So I'm sorry for all the stuff that led up to this," Eames gestured, seeming to include the the scenery, the road, the rabbit, and himself as covering _this_.

"It's confusing," Arthur admitted. "I've avoided her for so long. Before, she was so disappointed in me for joining the army instead of using my gifts. Then it was dreamshare. And after what happened with Cobb and Mal I didn't want to drag my family into that mess. I promised myself that I'd make amends. That I'd see my family more often after Cobb was settled and back with the kids...but don't try to take the blame for this happening, Eames. It was bound to happen at some point."

Some of the tension left Eames frame, but there was something that lingered, something hard for Arthur to pinpoint until he noticed the way that Eames kept looking towards their destination- that just towards the end of the road there would be a space where the rabbit swore Arthur's grandmother and Bert would be at this time of day.

That there was a grove with enough space to allow for what the rabbit described as a café, and the trees provided shade and the birds hid in the boughs, chirping or talking to pass the time as Bert and Mary Poppins shared the afternoon together.

"Are you nervous?" Arthur finally asked. "She won't hurt you, I swear it. She's practically perfect, not homicidal!"

This made Eames laugh in spite of himself. "It's more than silly, but I guess that I _am_ a little intimidated. This would be the first time in a long time that I met anyone's family." Then he cleared his throat and chanced a look at Arthur. "When I initially got down here, I could hear you, you know? It's kind of like how it is when dreaming with the PASIV. If someone says something or touches you as you dream, how it translates into something within the dream?"

Arthur paled as he recalled his exact words before taking the jump into the chalk drawing.

 _Whenever I doubt there's a way I could love you more, you surprise me, Mr. Eames._

"I found myself on a purple road which became more realistic the longer I examined it," Eames explained. "Then the wind blew. It rustled the blurry boughs of the trees, defined the shapes, but not the leaves." Eames reached up and plucked a leaf from one of the low hanging branches as they passed it. It stained his fingers with lime-green chalk dust but appeared as detailed as any other freshly plucked green leaf in reality. He let it flutter to the ground as they continued on, Arthur following after the forger who was intent on continuing the trip as he spoke to Arthur.

"I heard your voice. Friendly breeze went right past me, leaving your words where I could hear them this far down..."

Arthur's mouth was dry. He was scrambling for something to say that was more than vowel sounds.

This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. It was far too soon to talk about feelings. That Eames heard him say it was enough to make Arthur reevaluate his current state.

Previously made a statement about loving Eames, Eames had _heard_ it, and Arthur was now trapped in Jolly Holiday on the way to see his grandparents, one alive and the other dead, but still present. Somehow. This was just getting to be too much!

If Arthur wasn't careful his two current physical sensations would merge in an embarrassing way in this setting- because in this dream like setting it was totally possible for Arthur's worry about throwing up from the stress to merge with the butterflies he was feeling from the way Eames was looking at him. The forger kept stealing glances. The man was a little knowing, a little nervous, but just as accepting as always, and Arthur almost couldn't take it.

Arthur wasn't going to _vomit butterflies_ in front of this man.

"I-"

Eames reached for Arthur's freehand and said, "We can talk about this later. Nothing has changed, Arthur. Nothing at all. We're two dream criminals on our way to visit your grandparents."

"If they're really my grandparents," Arthur said with a sigh. "Until I see them myself, I can't be sure if they're real. I'll have to smile and ask questions; maybe answer a dozen or twenty more."

"Then it's excellent we went down here together, isn't it? We can watch each other's backs, distract them, then cut and run if absolutely necessary. I won't leave you down here."

"Me neither, Eames," Arthur said, finding himself squeezing Eames's hand, reassuring the one still reassuring _him_. They really were an excellent team, Arthur thought, it would be shame for it to end because of something as stupid as a comment over a chalk drawing or an unexpected visit to Arthur's family in the same chalk drawing.

The forger smiled for him. "Any dress code I should be aware of?"

Arthur considered it, then thought to ask the rabbit. It wasn't too far away, hopping along at a pace that gave Arthur and Eames some privacy for conversations, but didn't allow them to lose sight of it.

"Excuse me," Arthur asked the rabbit, who paused and twitched its curiously twitched its nose at them, waiting for them to draw even and stop to speak. "Mary and Bert...they wouldn't happen to be in Victorian fancy dress, would they?"

The rabbit perked up at the mention of costumes, and examining what the two dream criminals were already wearing. "Oh, yes, but please don't feel obligated to join in. It's been so long, Mary will be happy to see you even without a fancy dress costume!"

They were standing a couple feet away from the grove. At this distance Arthur could hear distinctly human voices. Soft laughter and conversation between a man and women.

Arthur nodded and took a deep breath; he thanked the little rabbit for leading the way, and then looked to Eames.

He blinked because Eames had dreamed up a modest bouquet of Spring flowers.

Eames laughed when he noticed Arthur's surprise. He offered the flowers to Arthur.

"For your grandmother, Arthur," Eames said. "We may not be shooting projections and running from angry clients, but this still can be done strategically. Flowers are a peace offering. Flowers can also be used as a weapon. Let's see how this plays out."

Arthur had to let go of Eames's hand to take the flowers, hoping that he wasn't blushing too much. An involuntary response, really. Did it mean that he _wanted_ Eames to give him flowers? Obviously flowers were a lovely gift and very thoughtful, Arthur rationalized. He just never got them.

He made Eames pause before they entered the grove. Arthur shifted his hold on the flowers and the PASIV to get one hand free, and then reached out. Arthur was very aware of the way that Eames became still and watchful as Arthur touched his shirt collar, which had been sticking up since their hasty exit from that job. It was crooked, so Arthur quickly adjusted it so that Eames looked less like he'd been running from people with guns. Nice and presentable. Nothing would stop it from being paisley, but Arthur could care less about the pattern.

"Now you're perfect," Arthur said, holding the PASIV in one hand, the flowers in the other.

Then they walked side by side into the grove.


	8. Chapter 8

"Arthur, what a surprise! Please, sit with us!"

Arthur's grip tightened on the PASIV. It grounded him in place, it grounded him in this surreal moment. He held the flowers gently, not wanting to bruise or break the stems of the bouquet Eames had dreamed up as a gift.

Or a weapon, Arthur reminded himself as he continued to walk closer to the pair seated at the table. A table where they were currently being served by _talking_ _penguins_. Arthur almost stopped at the sight of them.

"We're okay," Eames said with a smile, no doubt noticing Arthur's reaction to the penguins while hiding any reaction of his own behind a pleasant smile. For all Arthur knew, Eames could have purposely been forging that smile to hide what he was really feeling. "They're just penguins. I doubt the penguins will attack...unless they have in the past?"

Arthur shook his head, and was relieved when he noticed how Eames slipped his hand away from where his gun was holstered.

"Please don't shoot the penguins. They're only waiters. They are penguin waiters that already look like they're wearing tuxedos because obviously they're _penguins_. They're only penguins with neat little bowties."

Arthur wasn't going to mention that one of the first Halloween costumes he got to design for himself was based off of his grandmother's story. He wasn't going to explain the effort he'd put into it, only at the young age of six, to try and make himself look like one of grandmother's singing and dancing penguin waiters. Arthur wasn't sure how he'd react if one of those penguins got shot. Arthur was sure he sounded ridiculous for worrying over penguins that weren't supposed to be real in the first place, but still.

Arthur took his mind off of that topic and listened for Eames's reply. Hoped for a reply, really.

"Bowties are cool," Eames said, not disappointing Arthur. Eames purposely didn't look over at Arthur as he said it, but Arthur could definitely see the hint of Eames's real smile showing through the one he currently wore.

"We are going to have a lot to talk about after this," Arthur said softly. Whether Eames somehow knew about or was able to guess that Arthur had a secret love of Doctor Who would have to be the second thing they were going to discuss once they got out of this place, but only if the first topic didn't lead to an uncomfortable termination of their successful working relationship.

Thankfully, Arthur was distracted from that line of thought when he got within two feet of the table, noticing how his grandmother had risen from her chair to greet him properly.

What Arthur had previously described to Eames as the "fantastically extended lives" of a gifted Poppins, but barely touched on was that despite the physical aging process, both Arthur and Mary retained youthful faces and figures. Of course there were signs of aging in each person, but they were minimal at best. For instance, though Mary Poppins should have been bent with age, white-haired and wrinkled, she remained as tall and fair as any of the photos from her daughter's youth.

Arthur got a chance to see if she appeared as youthful as he remembered when he first offered his grandmother the flowers, then after she had thanked him for the gift and opened her arms for a hug, Arthur carefully set the PASIV on the level ground so he could give his grandmother a proper hug.

"You haven't changed," Arthur said as he hugged her close. "I guess your hair is a little grayer, but you still look so young! Is this what I'm going to experience too?" Arthur had to force himself to get back on track, to ask the important questions. "What are you doing here?"

His grandmother pulled away with a gentle smile, cupping Arthur's cheek with one hand. "Not going to play along with societal niceties? Done with the small talk?"

"I respect you too much to pretend that this is a normal turn of events," Arthur sighed. "We're in a chalk drawing. You're having lunch with a dead man. I'm too worried to ask how you're doing, though maybe I should ask to get a better idea of what's going on..."

Mary pressed a kiss against Arthur's cheek. "I'll start. It's been so long, Arthur. I miss you. Your mother misses you. You haven't seen the family since you became a dream criminal." She frowned over the word. "Is that the proper term?"

"Yes," Eames said, stepping in smoothly from where he had been politely observing. He offered to shake her hand, but was clearly surprised when Mary gently slipped her arms away from her grandson, and moved to embrace _him_ next.

If Eames was at all surprised by Arthur's grandmother, he didn't show it. He politely hugged her. He introduced himself. "I'm Eames. It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

"You brought me the flowers, didn't you?"

Arthur and Eames shared a surprised look, Eames looking at the point man from over Mary's shoulder. Arthur raised his eyebrows and shrugged, gesturing that Eames should continue.

"...I thought that it would be a good way to break the ice, yes."

Mary pulled away from Eames and nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Well, they're lovely." She brushed at wrinkles that didn't even exist on the skirt of her white dress, before sitting back down at the table.

"I'm sure you have plenty of questions, Arthur," Mary paused and then indicated the man seated across from her at the table. "But first I'd like to introduce you to Bert."

Arthur stood stock still with Eames beside him as a reassuring presence. Both examined the man Mary claimed was Bert.

Wearing a boater hat, an orange and red stripped jacket, and white pants to match, Bert was in the middle of explaining something to the penguins still gathered around his side of the table. He appeared to be as youthful as Mary, but Arthur couldn't recall if anyone (his mother or grandmother) ever mentioned him having special gifts like the Poppins.

"Practically perfect," he pronounced, nodding in Mary's direction as he rested his cane against the table. "If she says it, then it gots to be true. Her Arthur comin' by _and_ bringin' a friend?" Then he turned his attention on the visitors, he focused on Arthur in particular.

"Very image of Mary," he commented, looking at Arthur and then looking back at Mary as if to compare, though it wasn't necessary. "I wish I'd seen you before," Bert said, his sunny mood deflating a bit. But not too much, and not for very long either. In no time he was humming something that suspiciously sounded like one of the songs Arthur's mother taught him, one she learned from her mother, one that Mary must have sung with Bert.

"He's not real," Arthur pronounced. "And god, his accent is _horrible_."

"Cockney," Eames suggested, putting his two cents in, but also frowning over the term. "Something's off about it, but I can't put my finger on _what._ "

Bert didn't even flinch at Arthur's words. He made no comments, but did fondly smile at Mary.

"Bert is a memory," Mary said, reaching out to touch his hand. "He may be the same age he was before, wearing the old costume, spending a jolly holiday with me, but still, just a memory. It's been lovely," Mary said as she patted his hand. "But we can meet another time. I have to speak with our grandson now, but we'll always have next time."

Bert agreed, standing and moving to her side of the table so he could give her a chaste kiss on the cheek while Arthur was still standing there uncertainly. "Maybe another time, Arthur?"

Arthur forced himself to nod. He also didn't jump when Bert disappeared. Nothing was disturbed when Bert left- no shuddering like in a dream, no angry projections to zero in on invasive dreamers. Maybe if they had enough time they'd be able to test the differences between dreaming with a PASIV and jumping into works of art. But not today.

"Grandmother," Arthur began, "I'm a point man. Eames is a forger. We both work in dreamshare. This is called a PASIV," Arthur picked up the PASIV and showed it to Mary before continuing. "In dreamshare persistent projections known as shades can debilitate or harm dreamers. If Bert is your shade-"

Mary shook her head. "Not a shade. He's not violent, he doesn't hurt anyone. He's not a dream, dear. He's a memory. He's Bert just as I remember him." Then she laughed at her own expense. "What you said about his accent is true. It's been so long now that I think I've warped his accent a bit. What sounded charming in 1910 is kind of silly in the 2000s."

Arthur wasn't sure what to say about this. He never met the man. He only heard stories about him, and even those were few and far between. Arthur grew up with the songs his mother had learned from her mother, and had held onto the small tidbits of information he got about Bert. He had a chance to learn more, but did he really want to open that door again? Considering that they'd run into each other by accident, it would be the perfect reason to reestablish their family ties.

Arthur would never admit it out loud, but there were times that he missed visiting his family on holidays. He was an uncle, and a rather bad one since he didn't come by. He'd send things, he'd call, but there were times during his work with Cobb that it was too dangerous and would have led to his quasi-magical family being targeted by the worst in dreamshare!

But that was over with. Maybe there was going to be a chance in the future for things to change.

His grandmother was watching him, and Arthur was sure that she knew everything thought that had passed through his head. It was something in her smile that told him she was aware of his train of thought, but that she wouldn't bother him just now. She'd allowed an ocean to separate them for so long. Mary Poppins wasn't just practically perfect in nearly every way. She was also _patient_.

"Do you remember how to get out of the drawing, Arthur?"

Eames laughed in response to Mary's question. Something a little nervous, but also sort of surprised. "Oh, I hope he does! I took a leap of faith of sorts to get here. That's not even adding in the winking and the blinking!"

Mary began to laugh!

"Just like your grandfather," Mary said through her laughter. "He always tried to do it the more complicated way."

"We still got here," Arthur muttered, fighting through an embarrassed blush that turned his ears, cheeks, and neck slightly pink.

She apologized, but was as firm as she had been with the children she governed. "The way that works for you will be best," she advised. "You can't expect to do all of the things I've done. You can't expect to do them exactly the same way, in the same order, or with the same results. We may be almost magical but we still have individual traits, quirks, and points of view. I know that you don't like the idea of being a nanny," Mary told Arthur. "I know that you've fought against it. But I think that you've used your gifts in the best possible way, applying them to the work that you do now. You're the best, aren't you?"

Arthur refused to answer that. He was still puzzling over the idea that he really had applied all the skills of a magic nanny to his work in dreamshare. He _did_ take care of others. And while he wasn't as amazing as his grandmother, he was still hailed as the best. As almost perfect.

A practically perfect point man, maybe.

So Eames confirmed it for Mary. He jumped into the conversation and eagerly proved it.

"Yes, Arthur is definitely the best. That's how I describe him to other dreamsharers."

"You also call me a stick in the mud with no imagination," Arthur reminded him, moving to the forger's side so he could join the conversation and remain close. And speak with his grandmother, of course.

"Do you really think I can say that now? After everything you've shown me, darling?" Eames reached out and took Arthur's free hand. The PASIV was in Arthur's other hand, but his grip wasn't as tight as before. He was relaxing into this moment. As strange as it was, it was also perfect. His old worries about disappointment began to rear their ugly heads, but there was a gentle reminder that they were not alone. Though Bert was gone, the table was gone, and the penguins were gone, the grove still held Mary. She watched Arthur with an expression that bordered on amused and fond. This conversation was going to have to wait till they didn't have an audience member related to Arthur.

"You must have a lot to talk about," Mary said, digging the tip of her parasol into the grass. She looked immaculate, but somehow warmer than Arthur remembered her seeming to be when he was a child. He wondered if that was how he also came across to others. Slightly aloof, cold, or distant, but still warm? He didn't have her blue eyes or her raven dark hair, but their similarities extended further than eye color or skin tone or anything else like that.

They were both professional, hard working, and possessed natural timing. She knew when it was time to leave- the East wind would blow, the job would be over, and she'd fly away using her umbrella. But Arthur was different. His natural timing was attuned to dreams, to planning, to being a point man, and eventually joining up with Eames. That was all natural. It was all excellent.

"Yeah," Arthur answered her. "We do. I'll speak to you soon," he assured her. "I'll want to learn more about the chalk drawings, about the things within them, and I'd like to learn more about Bert. If that's okay?"

Then Arthur looked at Eames. "I need you to trust me on this. Listen to what I say and we'll get home easy."

"Whenever you're ready, darling."


	9. Chapter 9

The implications of Arthur's words didn't sink in until they had made it out of the chalk drawing, after they scouted the area and found that the men who had chased them to the parking structure had eventually left, and even after they finally made it to their car to discover it hadn't been vandalized or tampered with while they were gone.

Arthur had all the time in the world to think about how he'd used the word "home" when speaking to Eames about leaving Jolly Holiday. It felt very significant because they had no home to go to. Arthur had secured an excellent hotel suite for the job, though.

They wondered over their luck rather than have that talk while in transit. They chatted about the lack of scratches or dings on the body of their rental. The tires hadn't been flattened while they were away. There wasn't a single broken window. Since their radio hadn't been stolen, Arthur was able to flip it on to find something loud to fill the silence when it eventually came. Because once they'd run out of positives about their getaway car (no banana in the tail pipe, no sugar in the gas tank, neither eggs nor shaving cream were used to hurt the paint, the floor mats were still there, and the leather seating was still pristine) it became so much harder to skirt around what they both had on their minds.

Their restraint was admirable.

That restraint was lifted after they locked the door to their hotel room.

Arthur gently placed the PASIV next to the bed, then turned to Eames and said, "I understand if you have second thoughts now."

"No second thoughts, Arthur," Eames replied.

"Really? None of this has shaken your faith in our working relationship? I told you to jump into a chalk drawing where we happened to run into my grandmother and her dead husband."

"That was still better than Cobb's shade of Mal. That and the threat of Limbo definitely didn't make the Fischer job a jolly holiday," Eames said while pulling off his jacket. "If the penguin waiters wearing bowties were the equivalent of projections in that place, they had to be some of the most well-behaved projections I've ever seen in dreamshare. If this is what our jobs will be like in the future, how could you even dream that I'll try and quit working with you?"

Arthur noticed how familiar this conversation was. They'd had one just like it when Eames found out about Arthur's gift.

"I would like to be completely honest with you," Arthur said. "I want to get everything out in the open. All of it."

Eames had approached Arthur, but seemed to be waiting for some other signal or sign. He could have taken the easy route and commented on Arthur's unspoken love of Doctor Who. Then they could have had a fun discussion about how Eames had figured it out considering how Arthur was certain that he hadn't ever made Doctor Who related comments, talked about the series, or watched it when Eames was around. It could be true that Eames was intuitive or lucky.

But Eames didn't go that route. He got to the point and stayed there.

"Do you really love me, darling?"

Arthur closed his eyes for just a moment as he worked up the nerve to give an answer. There was really only one answer but he had to fight against the typical answer he'd give as Arthur, best point man in dreamshare. He'd also have to ignore a trait his grandmother had passed on to him: his ability to never explain anything if he didn't want to.

"Absolutely," Arthur said honestly. "Ever since we became a team you've shown me how capable and dependable you are. So accepting of me being...well, being _me_. A Poppins, I mean. So far nothing I've said or done has completely fazed you. You ask me questions, and then come up with solutions, and it's all been so damned _easy_. Why is that?"

Eames considered the question. "Why should it have to be so difficult? Loving you is as easy as breathing."

Then Eames looked at the king sized bed. He came to some sort of decision, removed his shoes, and fell back onto the soft- but not too soft-mattress. When he was settled, Eames gave Arthur an expectant look before patting the empty space beside him. "There's plenty of space, love. It wouldn't be the first time we've shared a bed."

So Arthur did it. He removed just enough to feel comfortable while lying down next to Eames. He ditched his coat, slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie, and then lay beside the forger.

Like many things he did with Eames, sharing space on a bed was easy.

"I knew that I was hopelessly attracted to you after our very first job together. I used to have this oath about never setting myself up for disappointment."

Eames nodded. "A good policy to have."

"And it worked for a little while, but then Cobb finally got back to his kids, and we teamed up! How in the hell was I going to avoid disappointment if I worked every job with you? I was sure that I'd find all sorts of things to wreck my feelings for you! But it hasn't happened once. It hasn't happened ever. You _never_ make me feel disappointed. Like I said before, whenever I doubt there's a way I could love you more, you surprise me. And I'm not ashamed to say I love it."

Arthur felt, god, how to even begin to put to words? He loved the way Eames had turned his head and looked at him as Arthur said these ridiculous things! But it felt good to explain it all to Eames. It always felt good to reveal some other facet, some other fact that he'd kept buttoned up or hidden because of how weird it made him feel. But he'd shown more of his odd Poppins skills today than on any other day they shared.

He felt so _light_.

Arthur almost had to double check and see if he was floating like his grandmother's Uncle Albert. He was about to ask Eames if he noticed anything. Arthur turned on his side, wondering over the vague phantom sensation of levitation, when Eames leaned in closer and kissed him.

Fitting together easily and neatly a moment was spent with Eames cupping Arthur's cheek with one hand and Arthur pulling Eames's closer by gripping the collar of his shirt. When Arthur pulled away to take a breath he asked, "Am I floating?"

Eames raised his eyebrows. "Is that a compliment? I'll take it as a compliment, darling. I'll gladly go back to kissing you once I'm certain you aren't floating off the bed, okay?" Eames made it a point to check even though Arthur was clearly still on top of the mattress. "Yes, you're still on the bed."

"Good. I know that you accept my weirdness, but spontaneous floating seems like it might be too much. I'll tell you stories about it, though."

Eames pulled Arthur closer. "Interesting, darling. Do you have any other stories about the stuff that makes you magical?"

Arthur submitted to Eames's wish for cuddling, because anyone other than Cobb was acceptable for cuddling. Arthur was certain that he was going to really enjoy the cuddling benefits with Eames. "Okay, let's see. My reflection has a mind of its own but mostly mirrors what I'm doing."

"Excellent."

"I have a very good singing voice. I can also sometimes make things move when I sing, hum, or whistle."

"You're the life of the party. You'll impress everyone with your skills at karaoke!"

"I'm not doing karaoke, Eames. I can't think of anything else."

"Then you're perfect," Eames said, pressing another kiss against Arthur's lips, then a second one against Arthur's throat. "Not practically perfect because that's only almost perfect. You're _perfect._ You're magical and smart and I'm so lucky to have teamed up with you."

Arthur smiled contently. "You say that now, Mr. Eames. Just wait till we have to hide in the clouds to avoid people trying to kill us, or receive job offers from advertisements that _rhyme_. You know, 'Wanted a point man and forger for one slightly unreasonable client.'"

"I can't wait."

And that sounded perfect to Arthur too.


End file.
